Realistic Delusions of Grandeur
I’ve written about facing literary rejection before, in part because I’m a prince at receiving them, but since those days of yore several months ago, a new tendency has sneaked into the publishing world: the nonresponse.
Used to be that writers, being commandants of verbal intent and letters, would parse through a rejection letter for any smidgen of meaning. Is it a form rejection? Is there an extra sentence with a pearl of insight from the agent, telling me that memoir is just too competitive right now, or that my voice is great but the book is too niche, or so forth? Is someone congratulating me for transitioning (that was my favorite, by the way)? Does it mean anything if the period at the end of the third sentence falls on the 219th pixel from the left? Read More…
It’s an oft-discussed problem of writer’s workshops that first chapters get lots of attention to detail and craft, and then fall off like a continental shelf at the edge of a deep ocean. First sentences are even more the focus of early workshop experiences. While I try to pay at least as much attention to the last third of my work as the first third, I do think an opening can sink or swim a book in all kinds of ways—agents who’ve requested the manuscript will stop reading, readers thumbing through books in stores will put it back down and move to the next novel, and readers will get frustrated or have a hard time pressing on into chapter 2. In my aim to write a fantastic opening, I look to avoid certain things: 
I am familiar with the rejection machine, so I’ve blogged about it from time to time, mostly in terms of how to handle it (read: 
Anyone who has spent more than 15 minutes trying to craft prose or poetry knows there are a bajillion books, periodicals, and Web sites out there with copious advice on getting published, not all of which begin with the phrase “How to.” Everybody has a tidbit, talking point, piece of experience, whatever, on what to do and what to avoid. For my part, I have read something like 6 percent of what’s been written on the subject. This is not a hallmark of my lazy reading commitment, but much more a statement on the volume of ideas, with much more being churned out daily.
Many of these 25 were great, balancing exposition, character introductions, the tone of the piece, and the basic conflict. Yet many more missed the mark. 
Anyone trying to make a go of it as a writer for more than 6 minutes will have heard the adage to write every single day. That’s what makes people writers, after all. They write. They don’t just talk about writing or literature, they do their best to make it happen, which means getting some kind of writing out there in some fashion, on a daily basis.
Sometimes writing resembles the proverbial love affair: an idea catches one’s attention, and then it’s all one can think about, which leads to a series of heart flutters while one ponders a first attempt at flirtation. And then oh, the emotions are mutual, excitement builds, intimacies achieved, which leads to a swell of reality. Things are not as they were first envisioned. Characters have weaknesses which they drip around the room like melted wax. If one’s stores of patience are thin, the relationship ends almost before it really began.
Once upon a time, I worked as an evaluator of information systems, which apparently nobody thinks are important in Walla Walla, but which trust me, they sorely need. The usable Web sites are few and far between around here, even for well funded organizations and businesses. But I digress. I bring up information design when talking about online presence because both of them, for me at least, start with the same set of questions.
I have read a lot about building a following of readers, having online presence, working the social networks, and so on. And while a lot of it seems reasonably useful, there are also slews of articles that rub me the wrong way or that I’m not willing to do. Also, while I don’t claim to be the most successful network builder out there, I have gotten a lot more attention and a greater presence than I thought I would in just a couple of years. Yes, years. There is no such thing as an overnight sensation. Or if there is such a thing, one ought not plan to be that. I might as well develop a 5-year plan for flying myself to Mars. 
I understand the appeal of putting up the best of the worst queries that land in an agent’s inbox, of letting off a little steam of frustration and giving everyone a laugh in the process, I really do. There is no end, after all, to the pipeline of awful query letters. After reading through agent blogs, Twitter links, fan pages and the occasional Writer’s Digest article, I can even scratch out some categories of Terrible Queries:
Trans/plant/portation 